Loss for Words
by ChibiDawn23
Summary: Alexander Hamilton, normally so eloquent, at a loss for words. Three shot featuring "Burn/First Burn," "Stay Alive (Reprise)" and "It's Quiet Uptown."
1. Ruined Lives

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the characters; they belong to the genius that is Lin-Manuel Miranda. I'm going off the musical cast/lyrics as opposed to actual history...because creative license and I can and that is why it is fanfiction ;)

* * *

"Have you read this?" he heard someone whisper as he donned his hat and stepped off the steps leading to his office. He caught their eye and they immediately looked away, pretending to be very interested in the brickwork.

Everyone was staring. Alexander Hamilton could feel their eyes on his back as he made his way home in the fading sun. _That's fine, let them stare_, he told himself. _Everything is out in the open. I have no secrets to hide. Everything has been laid bare. _He'd beaten them at their own game.

"_Embezzling government funds._" _Those were the charges leveled against him by Jefferson, Madison, and Burr. Jefferson, in particular, seemed gleeful to the point of manic. "Your career is done!_"

It had felt almost cathartic to present the carefully-written records to the three of them.

"_I never spent a cent that wasn't mine!"_ And it was all there, laid out in black and white. Times, dates, amounts, going back years. Every dollar, every cent accounted for in the ledger. He relished the looks on their faces. They thought they'd _had_ him, and then they left his office with _nothing_.

At least on the embezzlement front.

"_Burr, how do I know you won't use this against me?"_

"_Alexander," Burr had replied in an almost amused tone, studying his fingernails. "Rumors only grow. And we both know what we know…"_

No, Burr and _certainly_ not Jefferson or Madison, could be trusted as far as Alexander could throw them. There was _every_ chance this would come out into the open, sooner rather than later. And what had he learned, both in the field and here in the fledgling government? Even at home in the islands? Better to control the information than try to play catch up after the fact. He could write his way out of this. Rather than give the three of them the chance to edit the truth to their own devices, Alexander pulled out a pen the second the door clicked shut behind Aaron Burr and began to do what he did best- _write_.

And he wrote _everything_. Included the letter from James Reynolds that had started the whole extortion. Spared no detail. And then printed it in the next morning's edition of the _Post_.

"-in his own home!" He passed two women crossing the street who didn't even bother to try to hide what they were reading, obviously keen on the gossip. He kept his head down and pushed on, but he had only gotten a few more steps when one of the women said, loud enough to carry,

"His poor wife."

Alexander's foot caught on the curb and he nearly tripped. He willed his body to stay upright and somewhat dignified as he straightened his coat and continued walking, whispers following him the entire way home.

* * *

Silence greeted him at the door.

No sounds of the children. No piano from Phillip practicing his lessons. Just…silence.

He passed the clock in the hall, noted the time. It was late. Later than usual, for him. _No wonder_, he thought as he hung his coat on the hook by the door. The lamps were still lit in the hall and the stairs.

Down the hall, somewhere near the living room, he heard footsteps creak on the floor. _Someone was still awake_. Quietly, he made his way down the hall, his shoes clicking softly on the hardwood, muted every few feet by the thick rugs. He placed a hand on the doorway to the living room. Firelight danced across the walls of the otherwise darkened room. He shifted his weight to step inside.

A voice, in a firm, but wavering tone, told him, "Don't take another step."

Alexander obliged the voice, setting his foot back down on the floor. He did, however, poke his neck further into the room, looking for his wife, the source of the voice. His eyes found her sitting near the hearth, legs tucked under her, in her nightgown. Eliza's hair was pulled back and she had her shawl resting in the crooks of her elbows. Next to her on the floor, Alex saw a pile of papers. He fished for his glasses in his pocket to read the writing scrawled on them.

_My dearest Betsey…_the one in her hand read.

He frowned, when he realized what they were. Every letter he'd sent her from the battlefield, penned at the end of long days of writing communications and missives for General Washington. Written in ink that he'd sometimes had to hold over the fire to get it to liquefy enough for him to use. Every word he'd longed to say to her in person that he'd had to resort to committing to paper instead. Years of courtship; even after they'd married, he'd written her from Philadelphia. Sometimes, even from just up the street.

Though, those had been _far_ too infrequent, he realized. "Eliza…" he whispered. "What…what are you-"

"I'm burning the letters you wrote me, Alexander," she said quietly. Her tone was flat, lifeless. The one in her hand caught fire on the corner. She let it burn in her hand for a moment before dropping it into the fireplace. The paper caught quickly, licked the edges and turned them black before consuming it completely. She heard him inhale quickly, but before he could say anything or stop her, she held up her hand. "You can stand over there. I don't know who you are."

Confusion washed over his face. "Betsey, I-"

"I reread every letter," Eliza cut him off. She sifted through the pile, plucked another letter from it. "I saved every single one of them, did you know?" Her eyes flickered down the writing. "You and your words," she whispered, smiling sadly. "Your sentences left me defenseless. You built me palaces out of paragraphs. Cathedrals. You said you were mine."

She set that one alight and moved methodically onto another as her husband watched in anguish. "Do you know what Angelica said, when your first letter arrived from the field?" Eliza didn't wait for an answer. "'Be careful with that one, love,'" she quoted. "'He'll do what it takes to survive.'"

_You're like me. I'm never satisfied. There's a million things I haven't done, but just you wait._

"Were your children and I…were we not _enough _for you?" Eliza mused quietly. Finally, _finally_, she looked up at him, and Alexander got his first glimpse of the betrayal and heartbreak in the love of his life's eyes. She held up that morning's edition of the _Post_. There it was. His infidelity, laid out in black and white across _several_ pages. "You told the whole _world_ how you brought this _girl_-" she spat out the word like it tasted bad- "into _our_ bed. _Our_ home!"

"I _had_ to," Alexander finally found his voice, ignoring his wife's command to stay at the door, crossing the room in three strides to sink down beside her. "Her husband-I was confronted. Jefferson, they came to my office. Accused me of embezzlement. I refused to let that stand. If I hadn't…Burr, h-he might have-" Normally so eloquent and rapid fire with his words…Alexander was very nearly at a loss. He grabbed for his wife's hand-

"I can _read_," Eliza cut him off with a hiss, jerking her hand away, leaving his stranded in midair. "Perhaps not as quickly as you, but that only means it had longer to sink in," she said. "Heaven forbid someone whisper that you're part of some scheme." She dropped another letter into the flames. "Your enemy whispers, so you have to _scream_." Her voice rose on the word scream, and the two waited, both praying that the children would sleep through this.

But they wouldn't sleep forever. Eventually, Alexander realized, the oldest ones would hear it at school. The youngest ones would wonder.

Eliza laid it out for him. "In clearing your name, you have ruined _our_ lives," she said. "You and your words, _obsessed_ with your legacy. Your sentences border on senseless, and you are paranoid in every paragraph about how they'll perceive _you_!" She turned, and pushed him away. "You. _You_?!" Each word was met with a blow to his chest. Tears were falling now, both of them were in tears, Alexander sitting awkwardly on the floor, his eyes never leaving his wife or the stack of memories of happier, loving times.

"Please," he whispered, his voice catching.

She shook her head, swallowed, and chose another letter from the stack. "I know about whispers," she said, dropping her voice to a lower octave so as not to wake the children. "Do you think I haven't heard them in the street? _His poor wife_. _Did she know?_" She looked up at him from under her eyelashes. "I'm not naïve. I've seen how you look at my sister."

_My dearest, Angelica…_

Whatever words Alexander had for his defense died on his tongue.

Eliza picked up the stack of letters. "These letters might have redeemed you. Not anymore. I'm erasing myself from your narrative," she told him, finding her voice once more. "Let them wonder how Eliza reacted when you broke her heart! The world has _no_ right to my heart. The world has _no_ place in our bed. They don't get to know what I said!"

She looked up at her husband, made him look at her when he wanted to look away. "_You_ forfeit all rights to my heart. You forfeit your place in our bed. You'll sleep in your office instead. And when the time comes, you'll be the one to explain to the children the pain and embarrassment you put their mother through."

He was crying now, sobbing silently as his wife destroyed him with her words, as she let go of his chin with her fingers. W_ords brought on by _your_ own words, Alexander Hamilton…_"When will you _learn_, Alexander?" she asked him. "That _they_ are our legacy…._we_ are your legacy? Not your financial plan. Not your wartime exploits, and _certainly_ not your sordid affair with this Maria Reynolds. _Us_," she reminded him.

Eliza stood. She dropped the entire stack of letters into the fireplace, the flames leaping to consume them, and her broken heart along with them. Her husband stared into the flames, face streaked with tears. She took a step until she was even with his shoulder, looked down at the top of his head. "I hope that you burn, too."

His shoulders shook as he buried his head in his hands.

And Eliza walked out of Alexander's life.

* * *

**Author's Note**: First and foremost, I bat Hamliza and will forever. Lin and Pippa _kill_ those roles and they're my Hamilton fandom OTP. But (and yes, I know I'm slow on the uptake), I discovered the "First Burn" Hamildrop recently, and have wanted _so_ bad to combine the lyrics from both that and "Burn" into one story. There was a _lot_ of emotion in this, and that's not something I usually am good at, so I hope I did it justice. I know everybody's got a "Burn/First Burn" fic out there, this is just me throwing my own hat into the ring.

Also, **no** this is not complete :) Because when I get time I really want to turn this into a 3-shot with "Stay Alive (Reprise)" and "It's Quiet Uptown." So throw it on alert and hopefully it happens.


	2. Another Heartbreak

**Author's Note: Um so, some basis in fact here. Dr. Hosack was a real person; ironically, he tended to both Hamiltons after their respective duels. Also, the part about Hamilton at his son's funeral is also supposedly true-he was so overcome that people had to physically hold him up (My source is Wikipedia; haven't gotten that far in Chernow's book yet). I don't normally write stuff like this, so I don't know if it needs a trigger warning or anything, but I mean, if you've been lucky enough to see the musical or you've listened to the soundtrack, nothing in here should come as any great surprise.**

* * *

His feet pounded on the cobblestones, and he ignored passersby as he ran with single-minded focus. He turned the corner, his destination ahead, bursting between two women that could only stare in shock at the fleeing figure sprinting away from them.

One recovered enough to ask, "Was that…Alexander Hamilton?"

Indeed, the man thundering up the street _was_ Alexander, but he never heard the question, never stopped to apologize. He had a more pressing situation.

His son was _dying_.

Alexander barged through the door of Dr. Hosack, out of breath. He looked a mess; hair falling out of its' normally perfect coif, cheeks red, chest heaving. It was obvious he had been crying as he ran-his eyes were red and wet.

"Where is my _son_?" he burst out, his voice intruding on the silence of the house.

The doctor poked his head from the top of the stairs. "Mr. Hamilton," he greeted him, brusque and professional. "Come in. Philip was brought in a half hour ago-"

Philip Hamilton's father was in _no_ state to hear the diagnosis. "Is he alive?" Alexander demanded, grabbing the doctor by the coat.

The doctor seemed taken aback at his intensity. "Y-yes, but you have to understand- the bullet entered just above his right hip and lodged in his right arm-"

Hamilton interrupted him once more. "Can I see him, _please_?" His voice cracked as he pleaded with the doctor. Dr. Hosack gently removed Alexander's fists from his coat, holding them firmly as he looked into the man's eyes.

"I'm doing everything I can…but the wound was already infected when he arrived-Mr. Hamilton!" Hosack burst out as Alexander wrenched his hands from his and disappeared up the stairs, taking them two at a time, stumbling slightly when he hit the landing. He turned a corner into the first open door.

_No. Philip._

19-year old Philip Hamilton lay in the bed. His face was ashen, eyes clenched tight in pain. Beads of sweat dripped from his forehead, and every now and again, he would grimace in pain and his body would spasm, muscles taut, and then he'd semi-relax.

_I came to ask you for advice. They don't exactly cover dueling in boarding school._

Alexander swallowed, and took a step into the room. His breath came in short hitches as he slowly made his way to his son's bedside. "Philip?" he whispered, standing over his son. His hands were shaking; he could barely stay upright.

His son opened one eye. "Pa," Philip breathed, then winced as a wave of pain came over him.

Alexander reached down, took Philip's hand, tears pricking at the corner of his eyes.

"I-I did exactly as you said, Pa," Philip choked out. "I h-held my head up h-high."

_Stand there like a man until Eacker is in front of you._

_This is my doing…_"I know," Alexander assured him, squeezing his hand.

"Even b-before we got to ten," Philip continued, as if it was important his father heard the whole story. "I-I was aiming for the sky-"

_When the time comes, fire your weapon in the air. _

_As if his father needed more evidence that this was his fault._

"I know," Alexander whispered, heart pounding in his chest. He wondered if Philip could hear it. "You did everything just right." He smoothed back Philip's hair from his forehead. His son's skin was clammy and soaked with perspiration. "Save your strength," he told his son. "Stay alive-"

"Philip!"

Alexander jumped, looked up sharply. His wife stood in the doorway. The first time he'd seen her in months. Ever since…ever since _that_ night, he'd been sleeping at the office. He'd come around to see his children on occasion, but for the most part, work consumed his waking moments.

_I should have been around…I swore that I'd be around_…

"Is he breathing?" Eliza demanded of him. "Is he going to survive this?"

"Eliza-"

She reached around him, not really wanting or waiting for an answer, her hands flying to her son's face, caressing his cheek, running her hands through his hair. As if her touch would somehow tether him to this lifetime.

"Who did this?" she asked slowly, deliberately.

_George Eacker. George Eacker insulted my honor and Philip rushed to defend it. _He couldn't bring himself to say it. Philip was _dying_, and it was all Alexander's fault. He'd told his son how to duel, given him his own guns.

"Alexander…" Eliza wouldn't look at him, her eyes never leaving the pained look on Philip's face. "Alexander, did you _know_ about this?"

He couldn't answer. Wouldn't answer. But his silence spoke volumes.

"Mama," Philip whispered, his eyes finally locking onto his mother's. "I'm so sorry-"

"Shhh," she whispered, shaking her head. "You have nothing to be sorry for, my son." Alexander heard the unspoken words in her assurance. "Do you remember…" Eliza began, bravely putting a smile on her face as Philip's face scrunched in pain and settled again. "Do you remember playing piano with me?" she asked him, her voice fond with the memory.

Their oldest child coughed, managed a pained smile. "Y-you put your hands on mine and I…I w-would always change the melody."

Alexander vaguely recalled the sounds of the piano that would strain up to his office at the house, Eliza's practiced hands floating up and down the scales. And nine-year-old Philip's unsteady fingers plunking up the keys, always a half-step behind or a key or two higher. His wife, counting in exasperated French to try to keep Philip on beat.

"I know," Eliza smiled through her tears. "I know," she repeated. Her fingers drifted to grab his hand. Alexander slowly let go, allowing her to enveloped Philip's hand. He dropped his own awkwardly to his side.

"Stay with me," Eliza whispered to Philip. "_Un, deux, trios, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit neuf."_ Her fingers gently tapped the quarter note beats on the back of her son's hand.

Philip, always a half beat behind, counted up the scale after her. She brushed his hair back with her other hand, gazing into his eyes. Eyes like his father. "Good," she praised him, her voice soft.

She began the scale again as Alexander watched with his heart in his throat. Philip whispered it along with her, each note a pained undertaking. Eliza counted slower. "_Sept, huit_-"

Philip's hand went limp in hers.

"_No_." The word was a plead and a prayer, an act of desperation by a mother. "_Sept, huit-"_

Her voice was the only one counting.

Her scream of anguish echoed in Alexander's ears as she broke down at the bedside. Instinctively, he moved to guide her to the floor through his own sobbing. She didn't push him away this time.

_Philip, your mother can't take another heartbreak_.

He wasn't sure she knew he was even there.

* * *

Rain fell on the ground of Trinity Church, soaking the brown brick building, the grass, and the funeral attendees. Alexander Hamilton, dressed simply in black, stood next to his wife. They didn't hold hands, just stood in close proximity. Their other children stood gathered around them. A peal of thunder rattled through the streets, echoing off the cobblestones and buildings like a gunshot.

Through a fog, Alexander saw the pastor motion to him to come forward. He didn't even know for what-he hadn't been listening.

_When the time comes, fire your weapon in the air. __He'll follow suit if he's truly a man of honor. T__his will put an end to the whole affair. _

_To take someone's life, that is something you can't shake._

_Take my guns; make me proud, Son._

His legs gave way, and his cries of grief echoed louder than the thunder.


	3. It's Enough

The streets weren't cobblestone here. The hard-packed dirt felt foreign under Alexander's feet as he walked. Sometimes he noticed it. Most of the time, he didn't.

It was so different uptown. Harlem was still mostly rural. The cobblestones and tall(er) buildings in Manhattan gave way to rolling grass and trees, dirt roads and elegant estates up here. Large houses framed by trees, but nowhere near as close together as downtown. It was a place you could be private. Be lost.

_It's quiet uptown_.

The Grange loomed ahead on his right. A carriage passed him on the street, the only other soul he'd seen on his walk that morning. He turned, up the steps and along the sidewalk.

They'd been living together for almost a year. Ever since…since _Philip_…It wasn't like they'd reconciled. Far from it.

It was easier, somehow, to go through the unimaginable under the same roof. Alexander had commissioned work on The Grange, and everyone had moved to Harlem.

_Not easier_, he thought to himself. _It will never be easy, learning to live without-_

He took a breath, let it out, and opened the front door to be greeted by one of his youngest hugging him for dear life. As if it would erase the guilt. Erase the grief. He held William as tight as he could tonight, until the boy squirmed and, "Daddy, too tight!"

He would smile softly, run his hand over the boy's hair, and follow him in for supper.

Sometimes it worked.

* * *

Sometimes, he would find Eliza sitting in the window after sending the children outside to play. It was different, here. Thirty-two acres for them to run and get lost in, trees to climb.

_Philip, you would like it uptown._

He would try to speak to her- something about work the day before, or something funny Alexander Jr. had said at breakfast.

But mostly, they would just sit there, staring out the front window, and remember. That was easier than trying to make small talk, to sit in silence, her in the window and he in the armchair, and remember a little boy plunking on a piano. Remember a man heading off to his first duel.

So much easier than trying to cope with the unimaginable.

* * *

He had to do something.

He was hardly eating. Barely sleeping. When work didn't consume his thoughts and time, Philip did. His wife did. Alexander spent _hours_ walking in their garden, pacing back and forth among the trees and shrubs, talking to himself. He'd never _liked_ the quiet. Sometimes, he was composing his opening and closing arguments. Sometimes, he talked to Philip. Sometimes, he composed letters back to his relatives in the Caribbean. Sometimes, he talked to John. To Lafayette. Even to Hercules, one of his first friends in America. Sometimes, more often than not, he berated himself for not keeping his promises.

_As long as I'm alive Eliza, I swear to God you'll never feel helpless._

_I swear that I'll be around for you_.

Lately…the great orator, the one who spoke at the Constitutional Convention for _six_ impassioned hours, was trying to work up the nerve to _apologize_ to his wife.

How do you apologize for the unimaginable? Apologize for not being able to say no the _first_ time and ending the whole affair _right there_. Apologize for, instead of talking his son _out_ of dueling, _encouraging_ him to go, and providing the weapons that had hastened him to Heaven before his time.

He didn't know if he could find the words to reach his wife. Maybe there weren't any. Some things were unforgivable.

* * *

Eliza was ill that Sunday. Alexander did his best to get the children ready on his own. And maybe William was wearing John's jacket, and baby Eliza was missing a ribbon, but at least they were moving around.

The two eldest boys, Alexander Jr. and James, had done their best to help. They knew their parents were having a rough go of things, ever since Philip had died. They both had clear memories of their older brother. They would do what they could to ensure the younger ones would remember him too.

Today, they exchanged a look as their father paused on the church steps, looking up at the open doors. It was a beautiful spring day in 1802. Birds were chirping, the snow was nearly gone from the places the sun couldn't quite reach to melt it.

"What's Papa doing?" William whispered. James held a finger to his lips, waiting. Others passed the family on the way in, some looking annoyed they were blocking the stairs, others looking sympathetic.

James watched his father quietly lift his right hand. Two fingers drifted from his head to his chest, from one shoulder to the other. And then he resumed entering the church, left hand clinging tightly to Eliza's.

"That's new," James murmured to Alexander Jr. His brother nodded in agreement.

They exchanged a similar look of surprise when their father bowed his head during the prayers...he'd never used to do that before.

* * *

Alexander Hamilton found his wife sitting on the ground in the garden later that afternoon. The youngest children were napping. The two eldest boys were on the grounds somewhere, no doubt getting into mischief the way young men do left alone to their own devices.

The sky was blue. Her tenderly planted flower bulbs were just starting to bloom.

"Look at where we are," Alexander said quietly, as he moved to stand alongside her shoulder. She didn't look up, but he felt her tense at his presence. "It's beautiful up here. I hope you like it up here." She'd never really said one way or the other.

"I know I don't deserve you, Eliza," he began, running a hand over his face. "I beg you to hear me out, and then that would be enough." He sat down behind her, his shoulder touching her back, leaning back against one of the hedges.

"I'm _sorry_. For everything. For not being faithful to you. For not ending it immediately. You and the children…you should have been-no, you _are-_ enough for me." It had sounded better, he thought, rehearsed in his head. "And….and Philip…his death is on my conscious. I am responsible for that duel in more ways than one. The young man who shot him, he'd said some slights against me. And Philip wouldn't let that stand. He has..._had_, his father's quick mind and stubborn pride and short temper," he coughed out a fond laugh, remembering. "I gave him my pistols. Told him to throw away his shot. And if I-" his voice caught and he swallowed thickly. "If I could trade his life for mine, he'd be standing here right now. He'd say something about two grown adults sitting in the grass or how I sent William to church in John's jacket and you would smile and…and that would be enough. It would be the most beautiful thing in the world."

His wife still said nothing, so he pressed on. "I don't pretend to know the challenges you've been facing. I disappeared like a coward, threw myself into work, the same as always. I know…there's no replacing what we've lost. Not all the lost time together, not our son…none of it. But," he paused, searching for the right words. "I'm not afraid. Because I know who I married. A beautiful, smart, joyous, funny, _amazing_ woman. The strongest woman I know. Far stronger than myself." His voice cracked, but he continued. "All I ask is that even though you still need time…you let me stay here by your side."

He rested a hand on Eliza's shoulder. She didn't push it away.

"Let this moment be a new chapter. That would be enough."

Alexander stood, his hand still on his wife's shoulder as he turned to go.

To his complete and utter surprise and _joy_, Eliza reached her hand for his. Stood with him, and turned, to look him in the eyes.

James and Alexander Jr. returned from their jaunt to see their parents embracing each other, crying silently in each other's arms. The two exchanged a knowing look, and left them alone.

* * *

It wasn't immediate. Sometimes, it would just be them walking in the garden hand in hand. Sometimes, people would see them walking together down the street, her head resting on his arm. Every now and then, they would smile, or he would whisper something and she would laugh.

It wasn't easier. But they pushed through it together.

Little Philip was born later that year.

_**Fin.**_

* * *

**Author's Note**: Okay, playing fast and loose with history here, let's see...Philip Hamilton (the little one) was born in 1802. The duel happened in November of 1801, Philip was born in June or July of 1802, which probably means Eliza was already pregnant with him when the duel went down, but I liked the idea of little Philip being the product of the two of them getting back together. What else...man I have no idea if the two older Hamilton boys would've still been around the house yet, Alexander Jr would've been like 23 if I did the math right. The stuff about Harlem is real, it was still pretty much wide open space and naturefied (not a word? Is a word now :) when the Hamiltons would've moved there-and if you've not seen pictures of The Grange, it is GORGEOUS.

**Disclaimer**: Yep, not mine. All lyrics used in thoughts and dialogue belong to Lin-Manuel Miranda, and...the characters from the musical that act like the characters from the musical are all his too.


End file.
